


Forgotten Challengers

by bob2ff



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bob2ff/pseuds/bob2ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every winner, there are many losers. Introspections on a few defeated challengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faceless Opponents

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote all these as part of a pet project with a friend for BPS Challenge 76 (Team Battle). We wrote for all the teams that did not get any fic entries, although all did get art entries.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one rises, many fall. Where there are winners, there are losers. Introspection in a maid cafe.

Kawase registered the sights and sounds of noisy, lively Akihabara only absently as he headed purposefully towards the electronic departmental store. His mum would kill him if he messed up the simple errand of paying for a refrigerator they had ordered a week ago. As he turned past a three-storey building with the images of sexy anime girls plastered by the sides, he recognized a familiar face.

“Yo, Narumi,” he clapped his former Center on the shoulder. He had retired from the team just a few weeks ago after Josei High’s unceremonious early dismissal from the Winter Cup. He would have missed it more, but then the thought of the loss still stabbed at his heart. He preferred not to think about it. 

Narumi jumped from where he had been perusing gravure magazines. Kawase inwardly rolled his eyes. Good to know some things never changed.

“Hey, Captain,” Narumi began before he stopped himself and realized that Kawase was not his captain anymore. “I mean, senpai.”

Kawase peered analytically at him. On surface level, he did not seem to have changed. But then, he had only been a rookie when Josei had suffered that devastating loss. Maybe some of his responsibilities as captain transcended beyond the basketball club. The errand would have to wait.

“Let’s have a drink,” Kawase led Narumi towards a nearby cafe, but then Narumi turned instead towards a maid cafe. Kawase stifled the urge to whack him upside the head. He was trying to be a kind, wise senpai, and Narumi was ruining his efforts with his one-track, perverted mind.

“Welcome~!” the cute waitress dressed in a maid uniform giggled at Narumi and winked flirtily at Kawase. Kawase stone-faced ignored her, but Narumi leaned into her and gave her his best smile.

“Hey cutie. What time do you get off work?” he said, voice low, smirking. Kawase grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to an empty seat.

“You’re not supposed to come on too strongly to the waitresses, you know that,” Kawase grumbled.

“And what makes  _you_  the expert on maid cafes, senpai?” Narumi smirked. “Been to a lot lately?”

Kawase felt the flush rise on his neck before reaching over to cuff him, but then the path of his hand was blocked by the puffy pink flower that rested on the table between them. 

“Show more respect to your senpai!” he barked as the flower fell over from his failed attack.

Narumi rolled his eyes and slouched in his seat. Kawase was analytically reviewing the menu for any food items that did not have names punctuated with stars, glitter, flowers or hearts when he almost missed the mumbled, “Seirin’s in the finals of the Winter Cup.”

Kawase frowned at Narumi. So it  _had_  been bothering him. Rookies. They burned too bright, blazing a team’s path to glory in a competition. But they also felt too much. All that fighting spirit messed up their heads.

“They’re a strong team,” Kawase commented, calmly. He finally settled on a plain black coffee. Even a cutesy maid cafe could not mess that up.

Narumi did not respond, but he slouched in his seat until the waitress came over to get their orders. His entire demeanour changed as he immediately became the cocky, confident persona that he thought got him girls, flirting with the waitress. The facade he thought guaranteed victory.

Except it hadn’t, of course. Seirin had made sure of that.

As the waitress left, Narumi picked at the puffy flower agitatedly. He was determinedly not looking at Kawase. 

“What happens to the rest of us, though?” he muttered. The words were forced out reluctantly, as though he was ashamed of how he felt. 

“You mean the losers?” Kawase said. He did not believe in sugarcoating the truth. Seirin had been strong. They were rising to the top. Josei had not been strong  _enough_.

“I mean the losers  _without_  some flashy rookie to keep them relevant,” Narumi bit out bitterly. “I mean the  _weaklings_.”

Kawase wondered why the supposed flashy rookie Josei had scouted was now acting like such a brat. He wondered why, as his order arrived, maid cafes had the power to cutesify  _plain black coffee_  by putting it in a bright pink, heart-shaped mug with a fluffy handle.

Narumi’s cocky persona was back on again as he made yet another attempt to ask the giggling, skillfully evasive waitress for her number.

“Josei’s not a weakling,” Kawase interrupted Narumi’s drawling compliments to the waitress. Narumi’s face changed from the smirk to annoyance, like a stain blooming on white sheets.

“Is anyone talking about us now?” he snarled, lowly. “Is Josei featured in B-ball Monthly?” Narumi’s fist on the fluffy pink handle of his own mug was gripped tight, knuckles white. “No. It’s Seirin. It’s Rakuzan. It’s any team with a damn  _Miracle_.”

Kawase sipped his coffee calmly. He looked at his watch. He had errands to run. This business should be finished quickly.

“That’s the nature of the game,” Kawase said. “If you can’t accept that there are winners and losers, you shouldn’t be playing competitive basketball.”

Narumi was breathing heavily, silent, glaring at Kawase. “You were our  _captain_. Don’t you care at all that Josei doesn’t matter anymore?” 

The force of his words hit Kawase more personally than he’d anticipated. He gritted his teeth. “I’m being  _realistic_. Of course with every one winner, there are many losers. That’s competition.”

The competition for recognition and acknowledgement for existence. Instead, Josei was only one of many faceless losers, forgotten in the blazing path of Seirin’s glory.

Kawase stood up. His coffee lay unfinished. But it was now cold, and the aftertaste was bitter on his tongue.

“I have things to do,” curtly, he threw some money on the table. “Tip the waitress generously and maybe she’ll talk to you.” 

Narumi laughed, short and derisive. “Thanks for the  _advice_ , senpai.” Kawase knew he wasn’t talking about the advice on girls.

Kawase’s footsteps were heavier and angrier than he anticipated as he stomped out of the cafe, onto the busy streets of Akihabara. 

He should not have bothered with Narumi. He should not have bothered with competition. He should not have bothered with basketball. All it was, was a path that erased many from existence as they fell, while raising those with victory. 

Kawase walked with the throngs of people towards the electronic departmental store. One of the many anonymous, faceless people in the crowd.


	2. The Fortification of Entitlement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is easy to conform to brutality, especially when you feel entitled to it.

Seto, Hara, Furuhashi and Yamazaki don’t even blink the first time Hanamiya brings up the cornerstone of his strategy to ensure Kirisaki Daichi’s win. When you come from families that make up almost all of Tokyo’s elite, you are used to winning. And you do what it takes to win. 

Their training menu begins with learning how to use their body parts as weapons. Elbows honed to aim at faces, and knees aimed at stomachs. Kirisaki Daichi players know they are entitled to hurt others, in the name of winning. 

Even if Seto comes home from practice with the odd bruise or two, and Hara has unnatural aches when he stretches, they know they’ll recover. They are entitled to those bruises, all for Kirisaki Daichi’s win.

Next comes the mental manipulation. Furuhashi’s already dead eyes honed for his gaze to send the skin of their opponents crawling. Hara’s new haircut with his long fringe eerily covering his eyes. Little tweaks to what already exists, to ensure their win. The fortification of a team entitled to its sinister presence. 

Despite all their training, some do not understand what it means to be a Kirisaki Daichi player. 

“Isn’t it weird, having Hanamiya as both Captain and Coach?” a naive, incompetent player with hopes of getting on Kirisaki Daichi’s starting lineup has the nerve to ask Seto and Hara. He had the sense to ask the question out of Hanamiya’s hearing, but not smart enough to figure that there was no other player who could possibly carry both mantles.

Naive, incompetent  _and_  from a lesser family. Seto and Hara have no qualms of ensuring he transfers out of Kirisaki Daichi, much less ever play basketball again. Some do not deserve the entitlement of their win.

Hanamiya does not say anything, but they see his wordless approval in the renewed viciousness of their training menu. A renewed violence in the offensive patterns in their training menus, more attacking strategies than basketball. 

Seto and Hara have known each other for years. Longstanding business relations and beneficial partnerships between their parents mean that strategic social positioning has rendered their relationships pretty much set from birth.

They are from good enough families that they should not have to take orders from anyone. Not even a captain like Hanamiya.

But Seto and Hara do not follow Hanamiya because they feel they have to. They follow him because they are entitled to the win he guarantees them. 

Even if they privately feel Hanamiya is scary in his deadly sweetness, like a snake in soft grass. It doesn’t matter. He is entitled to his behaviour, just as long as they get the win they are entitled to.

Hanamiya feels he is entitled to break those who oppose him, and threaten his basketball victory. And Seto and Hara feel they are entitled to their win, and the trail of broken teams that ensures it.

It is only their right, after all. They were born better than others. They were entitled to break them if they wanted to.

And if Hanamiya enabled them to do it, so be it.


	3. King of Tokyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of King doesn’t come easy. But keeping it is even harder.

To the basketball players of Seihou High, there are no such thing as shortcuts. Iwamura Tsutomu upholds this principle with all his might, even as he watches his team collapse after yet another round of Nanba run laps.

This principle that Seihou High embodies comes from martial arts. To cheat at a martial arts form, to move an arm or leg where an arm or leg should not be moved, is to betray the martial art philosophy itself. 

So Seihou trains, and Seihou bleeds, and Seihou does not look for shortcuts where they can be found, even as they watch Shuutoku gain a significant boost in offensive power with the inclusion of Midorima Shintarou. The addition of a Miracle, whose skill is so overwhelming that all the Nanba run laps could not possibly match up to it.

Tsugawa Tomoki has a problem with this. He’s had a problem with it since he first joined Seihou’s starting lineup, and gone through all of their punishing laps, their punishing martial arts-basketball combo training menu.

He knows he talks too much. He knows he riles people up with his comments. But he can’t help himself as he watches Shuutoku decimate yet another opponent, and people whisper about Shuutoku being the strongest king of Tokyo. He can’t help himself as he notices the glaring elimination of Seihou’s name in the Winter Cup qualifying team lineup.

“Why are we wasting our time?” he demands, in between his wheezes and pants, yet another round of not being able to breathe after a yet another training session. Yet another pointless neverending loop of Nanba runs, aching legs and hands trembling with practice drills.

“We should just scout an ace.” They should just scout a monster. Tsugawa does not dare to say the rest of the words, but what he does say is enough to get the point across. Seihou should just take a shortcut.

Even if his time as captain has passed, Iwamura firmly believes that brats like Tsugawa should be yelled at and put into place as much as possible. So he cuffs Tsugawa in the ear, and puts him in an aikido headlock to boot.

“If you have enough breath to be saying nonsense, you’re not training hard enough!” Then he releases a wheezing Tsugawa.

He glares straight at Tsugawa. “Aren’t you capable enough to be our ace?”

Tsugawa gulps back his still choking breaths. He thinks about Midorima Shintarou, and how every shooting guard pales in comparison. He wonders about how he could possibly reach a level like that without shortcuts. Without genius, and without natural talent.

But Seihou does not take shortcuts. So Tsugawa grits his teeth and increases his stamina. The pressure of his defense. 

Seihou is still a King of Tokyo. But Tsugawa looks at the Emperor, Rakuzan. He looks at the meteoric rise of Touou. He looks at Shuutoku’s impenetrable Kingship. He looks at his defense crumbling to Yosen’s Shield of Aegis. He looks at the inevitable threat of Kaijou.

And he wonders how long Seihou would still be a Basketball King of Tokyo.


	4. An Interlude in Good Leadership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captaining an ace like Haizaki is hard work.

Ishida stretched, feeling the pull of his muscles on his legs as his hamstrings stretched taut. He sighed heavily as he noted the absence of the one member of his team who always was.

Haizaki Shogo. When Fukuda Sogo had scouted him, the coach had excitedly whispered to Ishida that he was Miracle-level, having been a starting player at Teikou. Ishida had thoughtfully wondered why it had become basketball convention to scout an ace to pull the rest of the team along. He wondered why basketball had become a game of not team vs. team, but ace vs. ace. Miracle vs. Miracle. Monster vs. Monster.

Their first practice session, Haizaki had sauntered in an hour late. Ishida had made to cuff him, and demand an explanation. But the girl hanging off Haizaki’s arm had complicated matters. Ishida had to first walk her out, ignoring Haizaki’s protests, firmly telling her that practice was private. 

Then he had to deal with Haizaki. The brat had the  _nerve_  to pull him up by the collar (Ishida was damnably shorter), and demand why Ishida had pushed his girlfriend out. Ishida had shoved his arm aside, and bluntly ordered him to start his drills.

The rest of the team had watched, mouths hanging open as Haizaki just walked out of practice, slamming the door behind him. They had stared at Ishida. Then they had stared at the coach, yelling at Ishida for pissing off their trump card for the Winter Cup.

At the time, Ishida had wondered what he became captain for. He wondered why his role as captain had changed from leading a team, to pandering to an ace.  He still did not know.

Ishida ordered the rest of the team to continue their drills. Whether their ace was absent or not, Ishida still believed in training hard for the match. He still believed in sportsmanship, even if Miracles and monsters existed that decimated the strive for teamwork and hard work.

He himself left to look for Haizaki. Having observed the brat for quite some time, he thought he at least knew the patterns of his behaviour. Around this time, Haizaki should be hanging around the convenience store, girl in his arm as usual, trying to buy a six-pack of beer with a pathetic fake ID and threatening frown.

“No girl today?” Ishida commented sardonically, sitting next to Haizaki on the curb as he cracked open a can and chugged half of it in a few strong gulps.

“Finally realized how useless you are as captain and skipped practice?” Haizaki responded, a nasty twist in his lips as he sneered at Ishida. Ishida quashed the urge to throttle him. With the Winter Cup just a few weeks away, the coach would kill him if he brought their ace to the match in less than pristine condition. 

“What the hell are you doing, Haizaki?” Ishida demanded. He had asked this multiple times already, but he still didn’t know the answer. He asked it every time Haizaki became too violent in a practice match. He asked it every time Haizaki stole yet another move, and watched the original player’s face crumble in fear and desperation. Making Ishida sick to his stomach. 

He wondered if Haizaki knew the answer himself. The brat could act like a thug all he wanted but all Ishida saw was a lost and pathetic jerk who didn’t know what he wanted. A thug throwing a constant tantrum.

“I’m drinking a beer. You’re the one who’s supposed to be leading practice,” Haizaki cracked open another can. The six-pack was rapidly disappearing.

“And  _you’re_  supposed to be at that practice,” Ishida retorted. He grabbed a full can and started drinking. Athleticism be damned, he needed a drink. 

Haizaki growled at him, trying to grab the can from him. Ishida dodged expertly.

“You give me enough hell, at least treat me to a drink,” Ishida said, rolling his eyes. Haizaki’s eyes were already glazed from the fourth can, so he stopped reaching for Ishida and lolled on the ground, lazily.

“I’m going to copy your speed as payment the next time we play,” Haizaki said. It was meant to be threatening, but in the slur of his tipsiness it sounded more pathetic than anything.

“Do what you want,” Ishida said, heavily. The coach would approve, anyway, as long as Haizaki secured Fukuda Sogo’s win. The taste of Asahi was bitter in his mouth. The taste of the prospective win, more so.

“What a good captain~,” mockingly singing the words, Haizaki got up, swaying a little. “Doing whatever you can for our team to win. Fukuda Sogo is lucky to have you.”

Ishida watched him sway as he walked off, singing Fukuda Sogo’s song loudly and derisively.

What a good captain indeed, Ishida thought. He felt like running away. He felt like avoiding his team, instead of pretending to espouse the values of sportsmanship and teamwork to them, when at the same time he was selling out to pander to his ace.

Ishida crushed the beercan in his hand. He walked the opposite direction from Haizaki, back towards the school.

He was captain. He had a practice session to lead.


End file.
